When poetry attacks...
So... there were calla lilies at the grocery store today.
Calla lilies scare the shit out of me.
TW: mention of some things that happen to some kids that you hear about around the edges and don't make sense to you until later, when you're an adult.
“UNNATURAL”
(4-22-19)
it’s quieter in the Jungle
no one shouts
turn right at the blackberry bramble
too tough to navigate when you’re two, three, five
and over it, on the other side of the fence, the World, anyway;
round the tall young Maple; sentinel
sometime there was thought of a swing, there
never come to pass
fingers trail through the chain link
past the tall Sunflowers
flanking the fence; soldiers
guarding us against
zealous neighbors
climb the apricot tree;
sharing space with The Ant People
look over the wall. the neighbors there
with their lawn chairs and pool
who are never there to use it
dust in their yard. Study the aphids being milked, and then
back down, swinging from the stump of
the rotten limb, and over
along the tall shadows of the youthful Cypresses
which march the cool gray Walls
ever taller, as i grow ever taller
so that they are never taller
than they ever were. and then, finally
you are in the meat of it. past the wide open spaces
of lawn and sandbox and brick walk where the
Voices echo in your ears and
and into the high, deep quiet
of the Jungle.
the shouting cuts off like turning off a radio or
a tap. No more fighting. No more bad words; and then
around the Elephant Ears, the potted plants, and through
the razor-sharp fingers of the Pampas Grass
taller than the tallest man; trackless tracks
between brush and Cypress; cool in the sun
in the shade by the Wall, in places where only the smallest people
can fit. Safe; no one can find
you here, or reach. past the Strawberry bush;
take a few for sustenance, but only
as many as won’t be missed; tart because they’re not ripe yet
(if you take the ripe ones, you’ll get caught)
then over the Boulder where You Are Tall
under the Pine that touches the top of the house
(Things that touch the house are dangerous;
the Pine is eerie, we do not linger)
through the narrows (too close here. Voices carry)
into the desert of the Rosebushes
gravel hot under bare feet
thorns all round
hot, sickly sweet scent everywhere
and the bees, starting
navigate the paths between yellow and red, white and pink
blooms too plump, too luscious
something not quite right about something
that orderly, and
when you look closely
the rot always ready to set in; you can see it
brown around the edges
sunburnt, or just
some fungus…never quite as beautiful
as advertised. Thread your way through the stench until
passing the gauntlet, there looms another.
the Bee Tree buzzes; impassible. A thousand
tiny eyes, a million tiny mouths, all shouting in concert
you are afraid of the sound of faraway shouting
it stings, you see.
but to step down, out of the planters, onto the grass, out into the naked
brick walk… is cheating. Is cowardice. You’ve come
this far. don’t come so close to the other Voices
these ones, they say, don’t sting if you don’t poke them, so you
skirt as close to the edge of the path as you can
without falling; falling down into that
Other World.
around the Dangerous Cacophony of Bees
a Droning like thunder, ears whirling
afraid to Fall… forever; and then
finally, you’re safe, in the Jungle. The real Jungle, where the shade is.
Elephant Ears close around you.
you are in another world. it is Silent here.
Silence like death, made of Life. you can’t hear the house anymore
only the dust falling beyond far fences, the
sound of heat ticking past concrete blocks cool in the shade
the trickle of the leaking faucet; even lawnmowers cut off. there is nothing.
Silence.
it closes around you like a blanket. Secure.
there are Gates here. they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things. but sometime they started to invade
sharp information threading through; uneasy
Birds of Paradise dart past, close behind, weaving
through the curtain
flower-feathers of orange and peacock; frighteningly sharp.
tread carefully along the middle path
(sometimes you avoid it, because the Calla Lily
taller than your head, three feet if it's an inch, looms like a thick, white, bobbing thing
and when you squelch over the soggy ground that is its demesne, it will arc
down over you, looming; lurid
turgid great saffron stamen jabbing at you like a metronome with
the pressure of your passage
as if you had invited its attentions, this great yellow phallus:
they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things.)
sometimes at home in the trailer, dad used to walk around with his testicles sagging out
of the hem of his not-so-tightie-whities
never bothered you till mom got mad about it, told him
to stop; sometimes some things
are only Bad after someone tells you they are Bad.
(before that they just are)
further in there was the quiet silence of the Avocado tree; warty,
stunted. Hunched like a toad in the stillness with the great green, leathery testicles
of his fruit dangling everywhere, rich and slick and rough and unnerving
sit in the crotch of the trunk and biggest branch;
(they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things. But they always invade, eventually. someday all the Jungles will be
cut down) sometimes we go to pick Olives from those trees,
lay out strips of bark there, in the dust where rare sun
peeped through
with your cousin who is more like a sister, write your names on the Wall
with Poinsettia juice; the leaves are so blood-red that you think
for sure the white milk of the sap will brown with the sun
and your Hidden Messages will burn to brilliance by next day
but they were always Lost. Forgotten even by us. Mine were always
easy things. My name, and “I love…”
hers were things best left unsaid; Confessions
about the things she’d seen, sometimes, between her mother
her father; sometimes the other men
who came home and brought money, and
(they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things… but Eden is a Jungle that is Lost, now, and)
the shouting was always going on back there in the house; especially
when she was there, and her family was there, and
the words on the Wall always Disappeared but
things are only Bad once they tell you they are Bad
or if someone Shows You.
Calla lilies scare the shit out of me.
TW: mention of some things that happen to some kids that you hear about around the edges and don't make sense to you until later, when you're an adult.
“UNNATURAL”
(4-22-19)
it’s quieter in the Jungle
no one shouts
turn right at the blackberry bramble
too tough to navigate when you’re two, three, five
and over it, on the other side of the fence, the World, anyway;
round the tall young Maple; sentinel
sometime there was thought of a swing, there
never come to pass
fingers trail through the chain link
past the tall Sunflowers
flanking the fence; soldiers
guarding us against
zealous neighbors
climb the apricot tree;
sharing space with The Ant People
look over the wall. the neighbors there
with their lawn chairs and pool
who are never there to use it
dust in their yard. Study the aphids being milked, and then
back down, swinging from the stump of
the rotten limb, and over
along the tall shadows of the youthful Cypresses
which march the cool gray Walls
ever taller, as i grow ever taller
so that they are never taller
than they ever were. and then, finally
you are in the meat of it. past the wide open spaces
of lawn and sandbox and brick walk where the
Voices echo in your ears and
and into the high, deep quiet
of the Jungle.
the shouting cuts off like turning off a radio or
a tap. No more fighting. No more bad words; and then
around the Elephant Ears, the potted plants, and through
the razor-sharp fingers of the Pampas Grass
taller than the tallest man; trackless tracks
between brush and Cypress; cool in the sun
in the shade by the Wall, in places where only the smallest people
can fit. Safe; no one can find
you here, or reach. past the Strawberry bush;
take a few for sustenance, but only
as many as won’t be missed; tart because they’re not ripe yet
(if you take the ripe ones, you’ll get caught)
then over the Boulder where You Are Tall
under the Pine that touches the top of the house
(Things that touch the house are dangerous;
the Pine is eerie, we do not linger)
through the narrows (too close here. Voices carry)
into the desert of the Rosebushes
gravel hot under bare feet
thorns all round
hot, sickly sweet scent everywhere
and the bees, starting
navigate the paths between yellow and red, white and pink
blooms too plump, too luscious
something not quite right about something
that orderly, and
when you look closely
the rot always ready to set in; you can see it
brown around the edges
sunburnt, or just
some fungus…never quite as beautiful
as advertised. Thread your way through the stench until
passing the gauntlet, there looms another.
the Bee Tree buzzes; impassible. A thousand
tiny eyes, a million tiny mouths, all shouting in concert
you are afraid of the sound of faraway shouting
it stings, you see.
but to step down, out of the planters, onto the grass, out into the naked
brick walk… is cheating. Is cowardice. You’ve come
this far. don’t come so close to the other Voices
these ones, they say, don’t sting if you don’t poke them, so you
skirt as close to the edge of the path as you can
without falling; falling down into that
Other World.
around the Dangerous Cacophony of Bees
a Droning like thunder, ears whirling
afraid to Fall… forever; and then
finally, you’re safe, in the Jungle. The real Jungle, where the shade is.
Elephant Ears close around you.
you are in another world. it is Silent here.
Silence like death, made of Life. you can’t hear the house anymore
only the dust falling beyond far fences, the
sound of heat ticking past concrete blocks cool in the shade
the trickle of the leaking faucet; even lawnmowers cut off. there is nothing.
Silence.
it closes around you like a blanket. Secure.
there are Gates here. they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things. but sometime they started to invade
sharp information threading through; uneasy
Birds of Paradise dart past, close behind, weaving
through the curtain
flower-feathers of orange and peacock; frighteningly sharp.
tread carefully along the middle path
(sometimes you avoid it, because the Calla Lily
taller than your head, three feet if it's an inch, looms like a thick, white, bobbing thing
and when you squelch over the soggy ground that is its demesne, it will arc
down over you, looming; lurid
turgid great saffron stamen jabbing at you like a metronome with
the pressure of your passage
as if you had invited its attentions, this great yellow phallus:
they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things.)
sometimes at home in the trailer, dad used to walk around with his testicles sagging out
of the hem of his not-so-tightie-whities
never bothered you till mom got mad about it, told him
to stop; sometimes some things
are only Bad after someone tells you they are Bad.
(before that they just are)
further in there was the quiet silence of the Avocado tree; warty,
stunted. Hunched like a toad in the stillness with the great green, leathery testicles
of his fruit dangling everywhere, rich and slick and rough and unnerving
sit in the crotch of the trunk and biggest branch;
(they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things. But they always invade, eventually. someday all the Jungles will be
cut down) sometimes we go to pick Olives from those trees,
lay out strips of bark there, in the dust where rare sun
peeped through
with your cousin who is more like a sister, write your names on the Wall
with Poinsettia juice; the leaves are so blood-red that you think
for sure the white milk of the sap will brown with the sun
and your Hidden Messages will burn to brilliance by next day
but they were always Lost. Forgotten even by us. Mine were always
easy things. My name, and “I love…”
hers were things best left unsaid; Confessions
about the things she’d seen, sometimes, between her mother
her father; sometimes the other men
who came home and brought money, and
(they say Eden was a place before we knew
certain things… but Eden is a Jungle that is Lost, now, and)
the shouting was always going on back there in the house; especially
when she was there, and her family was there, and
the words on the Wall always Disappeared but
things are only Bad once they tell you they are Bad
or if someone Shows You.